


grow bold in a barren and desolate land

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Mace Windu Appreciation Day 2020, Mace Windu Lives, Post-Order 66, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24330517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The Jedi Order has fallen, and the Republic along with it. That will never mean that the Jedi are gone, however, or that the fight is hopeless.
Relationships: Mace Windu & Dogma (Star Wars), Mace Windu & Slick (Star Wars)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 793
Collections: Jedi Journals, Jedi-Friendly





	grow bold in a barren and desolate land

**Author's Note:**

> 23 May is officially Mace Windu Appreciation Day! We stan one badass, kindhearted, underappreciated Jedi Master!

The Jedi Order has fallen, and the Republic along with it.

Mace watches the plain white armor of the stormtroopers marching past, perfectly in time, and curls his prosthetic hand in the fall of his cloak, careful, quiet, controlled. Keeps his temper, the burn of righteous fury tamped down the way it always it—acknowledged, accepted, left for the moment he needs it. A galaxy brought to its knees is reason enough to be angry, but there's no reason in existence that’s good enough to justify lashing out and harming innocents.

These troopers are innocent. Mace found the files, found the record of ARC trooper Fives, and it was too little and far too late, sliced files that filled in the gaps but didn’t change anything that had happened. But he knows, now, why Neyo betrayed Stass. Why Gree turned on Yoda, and Bly on Aayla, and Cody on Obi-Wan. Innocent men, turned into puppets, and Mace has tried so hard over the years to be a good man, but this—

He thinks this could break him, could _ruin_ him if he were going to let it.

The walls of the prison rise high and sheer, but the doorway is guarded by clones. Mace doesn’t let himself wonder who they were, what their names were before they had everything stripped away. That’s for later, for the dark nights in between actions where thoughts of failures rise. This moment is for doing, is for change, and Mace gathers his steadiness, his determination, his calm, breathes out. Steps forward, one foot on the path up to the gate, and keeps his lightsaber covered by the sweep of his cloak.

“Halt!” One of the troopers on guard raises his blaster, not quite aimed yet but ready, and steps out of the guardhouse to block his path. “No civilians allowed beyond this point. Turn around, sir.”

It’s the simplest thing in the world to raise one hand, to project a thought out and twist the trooper’s thoughts to match it. “I'm hardly a civilian,” Mace says. “I'm an inspector, here to speak with some of the prisoners, and you're going to let me in.”

“You're not a civilian,” the trooper repeats, lowering his weapon. “You're an inspector here to speak with some of the prisoners, and I'm going to let you in.”

Mace doesn’t allow his stomach to twist. This is necessary, and he’ll do it no matter how distasteful, in the name of preserving one last bit of hope for freedom. Not his own, but—the Republic’s. The last, staggering remnants of what used to be the reason for Mace's existence, the source of his duty and faith. This is in the name of resurrecting a fallen Republic, and with that in mind, Mace won't waver.

When the door slides open, he lifts his chin and steps through, inclining his head to the trooper. “Thank you,” he says.

“Of course, sir.” The trooper falls in with him, perfectly in step, and says, “I’ll escort you, sir, if you don’t mind. Do you have prisoner numbers?”

“I don’t, but I have CT numbers,” Mace says evenly, and refuses to be unsettled by the way none of the other troopers they pass even glance up at them. Wooden soldiers, stripped of everything human, he thinks, and closes his eyes for a long moment, thinking of Ponds’s last moments, the bravery and defiance and _humanity_ of him.

All of that is gone from Ponds’s brothers now. It was stolen from them, and of all the things Mace can't forgive Palpatine for, this ranks among the worst.

“That will do, sir.” The trooper pauses at a terminal just inside the building, punching in an access code and then pulling up a map of the facilities.

Quietly, Mace gives him the two numbers he memorized when this mad sort of plan started to come together. Agreeably, apparently unconcerned, the trooper enters them, then says, “East block, sir, level nine. I’ll need to see your security clearance before we proceed.”

“You’ve already seen my security clearance,” Mace tells him, settling the thought in between the trooper’s own like it was always there. “Everything is in order.”

“I've already seen your security clearance,” the trooper echoes, robotic, and Mace has to breathe through the regret. “Everything is in order.”

“Then let’s proceed,” Mace murmurs, and trails the trooper towards a lift off to the side. The clone is perfectly at attention, unwavering and staring straight ahead as Mace joins him in the lift, and he punches in a code, then lets the doors close. The lift starts moving a moment later, and Mace sinks back against the wall, very deliberately not pressing a hand to his chest. It feels like his heart is beating a little too fast, a little too hard, but that’s physical, rather than being a reaction to stress. Taking as much lightning to the chest as he did carries consequences, but—

Mace survived. He survived the loss of his hand, the fall of the Republic, the execution of Order 66. There's no way a little arrhythmia will stop him.

“Here, sir,” the trooper says, just as the lift comes to a stop. The doors open on a sterile white floor, a row of cells with glowing barriers to serve as walls and doors. There's no privacy here, no escape from the watchful eyes of the guards at either end of the floor.

Most of the cells are empty. The only ones that are occupied hold clones, worn and gaunt and dull. New prisoners, most of them, sent here after Order 66 and before the rise of the Empire, and something curls like grief in Mace's chest that he can't risk saving them. they heard the order, though. Until he finds a way to deactivate the chips, or remove them, they're a liability his tiny rebellion can't afford.

Soon, he tells himself, letting the trooper lead him down the row of cells. Soon he’ll come back and free them, undo the work of the control chips and _truly_ set them free. Until then—

Until then, he keeps his eyes forward and his steps steady, and doesn’t waver.

“CT-8405, sir,” the trooper says, coming to a sharp halt beside the door of the cell, then reaching out to key it open. “Let me know when you’re finished, sir.”

“You aren’t going to remember any of our conversation,” Mace orders quietly, gives it weight. “It was an assessment of mental health and readiness to cooperate with reeducation, and there was nothing remarkable about it.”

“I'm not going to remember any of your conversation. It was an assessment of mental health and readiness to cooperate with reeducation, and there was nothing remarkable about it.”

“Thank you, trooper.” Mace steps past him into the cell, and the barrier goes back up behind him with a hiss.

Seated on the bed, legs drawn up against his chest, arms around his knees, the clone lifts his head. He feels bleak, like grief and rage and hurt and resignation, and he looks up at Mace with dark eyes, the V-shaped tattoo that curls across his face stark in the bright light. There's no other movement, no other reaction, and Mace surveys him for a long moment, then inclines his head.

“What is your name, trooper?” he asks. It’s the most infallible way he’s found to tell who Order 66 has reached.

There's a pause, startled and suspicious, and the clone’s eyes narrow. “CT-8405,” he says warily.

Mace raises a brow, meeting his gaze. “That isn't what I asked,” he says.

Something flickers across the clone’s face, and he shifts, uncurling. Comes to his feet, almost too quick, and there's an emotion rising in him that’s vast and unnamable, but—

It’s something guttingly, wrenchingly close to hope.

“Dogma,” he says, hoarse, rough, and takes a half-step forward. “I'm Dogma.”

Mace inclines his head, then deliberately folds his hands in front of himself and bows. A Jedi's bow, careful and precise, and he can hear the way Dogma's breath catches hard and fast in his throat. “Well met, Dogma,” he says, and lifts his gaze to Dogma's again. Sees the blooming realization, the way Dogma's eyes flicker up to the braidtwists that help hide his face, with the sheer fact of how different he looks from when he was the Master of the Order, then back to his cloak, his black robes beneath the Imperial red.

“Sir,” Dogma breathes, and his hands curl like he’s only just stopping himself from reaching out.

“I'm taking you for reeducation,” Mace says as one of the guards passes the cell, and Dogma glances at him, then back at Mace, and nods once, sharply.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and when Mace produces a pair of manacles, he instantly holds out his hands. Mace steps close, fitting them over his wrists, then tips his head to draw Dogma's gaze down. Dogma looks, and Mace shows him the catch on the inside of the left cuff, which will pop the manacles open the second it’s pressed. With a tense breath, Dogma nods faintly, and Mace curls his fingers over one of Dogma's cold hands, one half-second of silent reassurance before he pulls back.

“Sergeant,” he says, and the trooper outside the door immediately turns to face him, coming to attention. “I'm taking CT-8405 for reeducation. Let us out.”

“Yes, sir.” The trooper opens the barrier, then steps back, lifting his blaster slightly as he eyes Dogma. “Will you be returning later for the other one, sir?”

“No, I’ll see him now,” Mace says. “He’s on this level?”

The trooper nods. “Yes sir. Over in solitary.”

“Not a model prisoner?” Mace asks, following the trooper with Dogma trailing silently after them.

“CT-1302? No, sir. The commander was going to recommend him for termination at the end of this quarter.”

Dogma flinches; Mace can feel it as if the motion was against his own skin, the horror and fear and rage like they're his own. He doesn’t let them move him, though, keeps his pace steady as the sergeant leads them around the last block of cells and then through a set of heavy doors. The cells here are solid, without even barred windows to let in the light. Anger curls in Mace's stomach, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver.

Once, this prison was meant for the worst sorts of bounty hunters and traitors. Not for clones who went against orders. Never for them.

“Here he is, sir,” the trooper says, and glances at Dogma. “Want me to babysit the other one?”

“Please. Thank you, Sergeant.” What Mace really wants to do is keep Dogma close, right where Mace can protect him, but he isn't sure how this conversation will go. Less well than his one with Dogma, certainly, for a myriad of reasons. Mace can't afford to give this clone any leverage, especially in the form of taking a hostage.

“Knock when you’re done, sir.” He pulls the door open, and Mace steps through just as a light kindles. Kept in the dark, he thinks, meeting the dark, furious gaze of the clone slumped in the corner.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Mace says evenly. “I heard you were recommended for termination. Care to elaborate?”

The clone scoffs, thumping his head back against the wall. He doesn’t make any more to stand. “Tried to punch out a lieutenant,” he says, halfway between a challenge and a threat. “Got tired of hearing all that _glory to the Empire_ bantha shit. That’s not what my men died for.”

“Your men?” Mace asks, though that’s a promising response. “These would be the same men you betrayed for a handful of Asajj Ventress’s promises?”

The expression that flashes across the clone’s face is fury and disgust and grief, deep-seated and honed into a blade. He hurls himself to his feet, right at Mace, and Mace could stop him, could sidestep or throw him off or toss him away with a single Force-push, but he doesn’t. He lets the sergeant slam him back into the wall with a snarl, cuffed hands twisted up until he can jam an arm against Mace's throat.

“What the hell do you know?” he snarls, right in Mace's face. “What the _hell_ could an Imperial bastard like you ever know about it? Jester and Gus almost made it, they almost got to the end of the war, but then _three karking words_ and they were _gone_. I saw them, you sack of poodoo, I _saw them_. They didn’t even _know me_. Marched me in here and they didn’t even have _names_!”

His voice cracks, and he wavers. Slowly, gently, Mace reaches up, gripping his elbow, and pulls his arm down. The sergeant staggers, snarling out a sound that’s almost a sob, but he lets Mace push him back and simply stands there, chin tipped up, eyes defiant.

“And what,” Mace asks quietly, “is your name, Sergeant?”

His eyes narrow sharply, and his hands curl into fists. “Slick,” he snaps. “And even if you take me for karking reeducation, I don’t care. That’s my name, and it always will be.”

“Slick,” Mace says, and Slick’s suspicion flares, sharp-edged as a blade. “You're not loyal to the Empire.”

Slick’s laughter is ragged, furious. “Kark you,” he spits. “No, I'm not. Think I can't read what’s happening? The Jedi are traitors, and suddenly every clone’s walking around like a living ghost? If they were slaves to the Jedi, now they're slagging _robots_ , and it’s the Empire that made them that way.”

Mace meets his gaze, holds it. “Good,” he says. “Any idea where Jester and Gus are now?”

There's a long, long moment of wary silence. Slick looks Mace over once, then again, expression wary and angry and edging towards bewilderment, and then says, “No. Weren’t exactly talkative last time I saw them, seeing as they’d turned into zombies.”

“I’ll make finding them our first order of business,” Mace says, soft. “Come, Sergeant. You’ve spent long enough in this cell.”

Slick bares his teeth. “If you think I'm going anywhere with you, Imperial, you're karking _mistaken_ —”

“Sergeant,” Mace interrupts, pointed, and brushes his cloak back just enough for Slick to see the electrum hilt clipped to his sash. “If Jango Fett didn’t scare me, I feel it’s safe to say you have a very long way to go.”

Instantly, Slick freezes. He stares for a long, long moment at the lightsaber’s hilt, then slowly lets his gaze slide back up to meet Mace's, and he swallows hard. “High General Windu?” he breathes.

Mace inclines his head. “Sergeant,” he returns. “I expect you to be able to put on a good show for our departure.”

Slick lets out a breath that shakes. He steps forward, right up to Mace, and this time instead of slamming him into the wall by his throat, he just fists his hands in Mace's robes, grips, pulls. “Would have thought you’d be the Empire’s first target,” he says, low. “How the hell did you survive? Where were your men?”

Mace closes his eyes, trying not to think of Stass, one of his best friends, gunned down by Neyo, who was strong and faithful and clever, kind in odd moments. He was Ponds’s replacement, but he was his own man, too, and Mace hadn’t wanted anyone else at his back by the end of the war.

And then Order 66 had gone out. Neyo had shot Stass’s speeder bike out of the air on Saleucami, and he might as well have been replaced by someone else entirely. A droid, or a blank slate.

Mace lost all of Lightning Squadron, his commander, his friend in one instant. Lost everything else the next, when the Order fell and took the Republic with it.

“They were on Saleucami,” he says. “They're still alive, for what it’s worth.”

Slick’s grip loosens, just faintly. “Not a lot, way they are now,” he says bitterly, and then, “Risking a lot for one traitor here, General.”

Mace is silent for a long moment. In the aftermath of everything, in the wake of tragedy, it’s all too easy to look back and see all the things they did wrong, all the turns they should have taken. But—

Some of them were chosen because there were no better options. Leading the clone armies was one of those. Mace regrets it, but the Jedi were ordered into service, and there were innocents who would have died by the billions if they’d tried to refuse. Their hands were tied, their _fates_ were tied, bound to the Republic as it splintered, and Mace doesn’t know what they could have done differently with the knowledge they had at the time.

“You were right,” he says. “For all that your methods were wrong. The use of clone armies was wrong, for all that the Jedi had no good choices once the Senate set things in motion. What you did was criminal, and killed hundreds, but—you were right to want your freedom.”

Slick closes his eyes, and there's pain on his face, a twisted grimace. “Chopper said the same thing,” he manages. “’fore he died. Though he kept swearing at me the whole time.”

“I can swear at you, too, if you’d like,” Mace says dryly, “though I would much rather get you out of this prison and somewhere secure.”

Slick stares at him for another moment, still and wary. Then, shortly, he nods, and says, “That good show you want. ‘Least one escape attempt, right?”

“Preferably nothing that will get you shot,” Mace says. “But feel free to struggle all you like.” He reaches out, and seeing the weak point in Slick’s bonds is as simple as looking at them. One touch, one extra bit of pressure in the Force, and there’s a crack. They drop away, and in their place Mace offers up one of the rigged cuff sets he’s carrying, showing Slick the indent on the right side. “Press this if we’re discovered and they’ll break away.”

Slick grimaces, but he lets Mace fit them around his wrists without protest. “I assume you have a plan for the cameras?” he asks sardonically.

“What cameras?” Mace asks mildly, and turns to rap three times on the door. It opens immediately, and Mace grips Slick’s arm and steers him out with a firm push.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he tells the trooper. “They're both candidates for reeducation. If you’ll lead me back to the gates, I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course, sir.” The trooper jerks his head at Dogma, blaster still raised threateningly. “Let’s go, trooper.”

Mace can see the way Dogma's jaw clenches, the anger that rises, but he keeps his shoulders squared, his eyes ahead as he turns. Deliberately, Mace reaches up, grips his arm the same way he’s holding Slick, and says coolly, “Behave yourself.”

Dogma glances at him, and Mace squeezes gently, a touch of reassurance. It makes the line of Dogma's shoulders ease faintly, and he nods and says curtly, “Yes, sir.”

Slick scoffs, but he turns his face away, doesn’t say anything. His eyes are scanning the bare hall, and Mace thinks of him sitting alone in a dark cell for months, for years, and lets Slick lean on him a little as he takes his first few steps. Slick doesn’t look over, doesn’t hesitate, but Mace can feel the grieving sort of gratitude that cuts like broken glass.

It’s a quick trip back to the main floor, the lift empty, the only other free souls the patrolling guards. The sergeant leading them never acknowledges the other clones, never pauses, just marches them back to the gate with steady steps, mind empty of possible questions. He has no desire to ask, no willingness to question, and Mace wants to reach out, wants to grab him and break his chip and take him away, but—

He can't risk it. Not yet. Right now he can be mistaken for a Rebel passing himself off as an Imperial officer, breaking out two prisoners. If he gives anyone reason to suspect that he’s a Jedi, Vader will come personally. Mace can beat Anakin in a fair fight, but there are bigger things at stake here than one Sith apprentice. The Empire is too strong, still digging in its roots. Before anything else can happen, it needs to be destabilized.

That, at least, is something familiar. Lightning Squadron was best at getting behind enemy lines, hitting hard and fast, and getting out again. Mace _knows_ this kind of warfare, and even against a thing as overwhelming, as all-consuming as the Empire, it will work. He has faith, in this and in the Force, even if everything else he used to believe in has crumbled down around his feet.

The ship is waiting at the edge of the prison compound, engines humming. As Mace approaches, the ramp lowers, and Mace nods to the trooper, then leads Dogma and Slick into the gap. Silent, quick, it closes behind them, and Mace lets go, stepping away.

“Any problems?” he asks, pitched to carry.

In the pilot’s seat, Echo turns and gives Mace a crooked smile. “None,” he reports as Kix scrambles up out of the seat beside him. He takes two steps back, then pauses, looking from Slick to Dogma, and then glances at Mace.

“Any injuries?” he asks, and his voice is brisk, but there's worry in his eyes.

“Slick was in solitary,” Mace says, pausing beside him, and rests a hand on his shoulder briefly. “In the dark.”

Kix flicks a glance at Slick, who stares back, narrow and challenging, and then says, “All right. Dogma?”

Silently, Dogma shakes his head, and when Kix herds a protesting Slick into one of the seats, he trails Mace towards the front of the ship.

“The systems are unlooped and no one seems to have noticed anything,” Echo offers as Mace leans over the copilot’s seat. “All of our clearances went through, too. We’ll be at a safe distance for hyperspace in five minutes.”

“Thank you, Echo,” Mace murmurs, and Echo gives him a smile, rising to his feet and stepping forward, right towards Dogma. Dogma hesitates, wary, but Echo simply holds out a hand.

“I heard you were with the 501st,” he says. “I'm Echo.”

Dogma looks from the outstretched hand to Echo’s face, the implants, the strange paleness against normally dark skin. Then, slow, he reaches back, clasping wrists, and says, “Fives's Echo. He talked about you all the time.”

An old grief that still hasn’t faded flickers across Echo’s face, but he smiles through it. “Yes,” he says. “Fives's Echo. Excuse me. Sir, the controls are yours.” He pulls away, then nods to Mace and slips past him, heading for the back, and Dogma grimaces, dragging a hand over his hair.

“Don’t take it personally,” Mace says quietly, and takes Echo’s abandoned seat. “He doesn’t speak of Fives much.”

Dogma glances at the open seat, then slumps down in it, digging his fingers into his hair as he curls forward. “Yeah,” he says, rough. “Guess that makes sense.”

Mace watches him for a long moment, then turns to check the instruments. Echo already has the hyperspace coordinates programmed in, and there’s little else that needs to be done. He still double-checks, fingers moving over the console with familiarity, and when he finally sits back, Dogma is staring at his mechanical hand.

“Sir?” he asks, quiet.

Mace doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t bother to so much as pull it back. “A reminder not to lower my guard next time,” he says calmly, though in all reality the memory of Kit, Agen, and Saesee cut down before his eyes, with hardly even the chance to draw their weapons, is more than reminder enough. Agen, at least, is still alive; Zabraks are hard to kill. The others weren’t nearly so lucky. “I was unprepared to face a Sith Lord. It won't be that way next time.”

Dogma looks from his hand to his face, and Mace can't read his expression even if he can feel the curl of fear and resignation in him. “Why are you trying again?” he asks darkly, and drops his hands to his knees, fingers tightening. “You _lost_. The whole Empire won.”

Mace considers the stars as they break through the planet’s atmosphere, a wash of starry black spreading out in all directions. “I'm a Jedi,” he says after a moment. “It’s my duty.”

“But the Order is _gone_ ,” Dogma protests. “We can—there’s four of us, we can keep you safe, and find somewhere to hide—”

Mace raises a brow at him. “You're not required to stay if you don’t want to, Dogma,” he says, and means it. Rescuing Slick and Dogma was the right thing to do, two clones still themselves left trapped in the heart of an Empire that may as well have killed every one of their brothers. They needed rescuing, and if they want to stay, Mace will welcome their efforts gladly. If they don’t, however, he already has Kix and Echo, has Caleb and Grey and Rex waiting on Yavin IV for his return. He can make do.

“Stay for _what_?” Dogma asks. “You're a Jedi, but you can't face down the whole Empire alone. It’s _insane_.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Mace says, unwavering. “People are suffering. I can help. I will.”

For a long, long moment, Dogma stares at him. Then, quickly, he swallows and looks away.

“How many others are there?” he asks. “And—why? Why did the clones turn on the Jedi?”

He sounds lost, sounds ragged. Mace watches him for a moment, then says, “Chips. Control chips implanted during the cloning process. The Sith Lord Sidious activated them.”

“And then everyone turned into walking zombies,” Slick says, harsh, and Mace glances up to see him standing at the edge of the cockpit, arms folded over his chest. Kix is behind him, not visibly guarding, but—Rex was the one to capture Slick on Christophsis. It stands to reason that Torrent Company would have heard the story, and might be less inclined to trust.

“Yes,” Mace allows. “You never heard Palpatine’s order, so your chips never activated. There are a handful of others I've found, or who have found me, but…not many.”

Slick closes his eyes, expression twisting. Takes a breath, and then asks, “You meant it about finding Jester and Gus?”

“Yes,” Mace says without hesitation. “Echo can find them in the Empire’s systems, and I’ll retrieve them. Kix can remove their chips, and they’ll remember who they used to be before the control activated.”

The slant of Slick’s smile is crooked, almost bitter. “Not that they’ll thank me for it,” he says, but he tips his chin, meets Mace's eyes. “You do that, I'm in. You want a rematch with the Sith Lord, I’ll help you get one.”

Kix makes a sound of protest, but before he can say anything, Mace snorts softly. “I don’t want a rematch,” he says, and that’s the _furthest_ thing from what he wants. From what he’s ever wanted. “This isn't about injured pride, Sergeant. The Empire has taken freedom from a whole galaxy, and as a Jedi I refuse let it stand.”

“The Empire,” Dogma says, and the weight of his stare is something incredulous, but edged with the burn of that same hope that rose when Mace first met his eyes. “You're going to take the fight to them.”

Mace nods. “I may not be the one to strike the final blow,” he says. “But I’ll see to it that when someone _does_ find the chance to strike, the Empire will be weak enough to crumble entirely.”

“Help makes it easier,” Kix says quietly, and smiles when Dogma and Slick glance at him. “We’re not Lightning Squadron, but we manage.”

It always aches, a little, to think of Lightning, but Mace assesses the old hurt, weighs it, releases it. “The Order has fallen,” he says, and that hurts too, aches like the loss of everything, but it wasn’t.

The Korunnai have their Four Pillars, and Mace was given to the Jedi when he was six months old, but he still knows them, engraved down in his soul where they can never be worn away. Honor, Duty, Family, Herd—Mace's are different than another Korun’s would be, but they're his. They still stand, even if the whole galaxy has shifted around him.

The Republic is gone, but not dead. Not while the Rebellion still exists. Not while people are still alive to fight for it. And as long as there’s something to hold Mace's loyalty, his faith, he’ll keep fighting too.

“The Order has fallen,” he says, quiet, and meets Slick’s gaze, then Dogma's. Feels Kix, stubborn as an ancient oak, and Echo beyond him, determined to survive and do what’s right. “But the Jedi will never be gone. Not as long as the Force exists.”

Slick laughs, sharp and short. “Never thought that would be a comfort,” he says, and turns away. “Jester and Gus first. Then I help,” he orders over his shoulder, and disappears into the rear of the ship.

“All of us have people we want to rescue,” Kix says, though to Mace rather than Slick, and then, “I’m running low on some medical supplies. Especially if we’re staging another break-in somewhere.”

They're always running low on something, it seems. Mace inclines his head, though, and says, “I’ll plot a course for Nar Shaddaa.” It’s not the safest place to spend time, but it’s certainly the best place to find what they need, and Quinlan can usually be convinced to meet them there and pass on information.

“Thank you, sir,” Kix says, and slips out of the doorway, retreating with steady steps.

There's a pause, and then Dogma takes a breath. “Did anyone else from Torrent survive?” he asks, grim.

“Captain Rex,” Mace answers readily, and it was the greatest shock when Rex had found him in the middle of an Outer Rim port, cornered him and revealed himself and then simply not left. “He’s the only one beyond Kix and Echo that I'm aware of.”

Dogma closes his eyes, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I wanted—” he starts, and his voice breaks. “I wanted Tup to survive,” he admits, bare and raw. “Even if he was…controlled.”

There's nothing Mace can say, nothing he can offer that will help. Instead, he reaches out, curls a hand around Dogma's shoulder and grips tightly for a moment. “I'm sorry,” he offers, quiet.

Angrily, Dogma rubs at his eyes, then lifts his head. “It’s _stupid_ ,” he says, vicious. “He probably died before the war even ended, but I was sitting in a prison cell for doing the right thing, _finally_ , and—”

He doesn’t finish. Can't, Mace thinks, watching his face. “It saved you,” he says.

Dogma laughs. There's no humor in it. “It might be better if it hadn’t,” he counters.

Mace knows the feeling. Knows the slant of thoughts that drags downward, that crushes and breaks and leads to words like that. It’s tiredness, and terror, and the deep uncertainty of drifting alone in the middle of uncharted space as all power dies.

“Dogma,” he says, and when Dogma lifts his head, he meets his eyes and says, quiet, with perfect truthfulness, “Thank you for surviving. Thank you for the hope it gives me.”

Dogma's expression twists like he’s about to cry, and he curls forward, burying his face in his hands. Quiet, careful, Mace slides down onto one knee, braced before Dogma, and reaches up. Curls a hand in his short hair, rests the other on his knee, and says, “Whether you leave or stay, Dogma, you survived, and you remained yourself. That’s a victory the Empire can't take.”

Dogma leans forward, dropping his head on Mace's chest, hands fisting in his black robes. “Of course I'm staying,” he says, harsh in his throat, but all Mace can feel from him is desperation and a terrified sort of certainty. “Where else can I go?”

“Anywhere,” Mace says. “The galaxy is dangerous, but anywhere you want to go—”

“No,” Dogma says, cutting him off, and it’s sharp around all the edges. “Where else _can_ I go, if you're fighting? I turned my back on my brothers once. I'm not going to do it again, General.”

Mace can see the determination on his face, and he doesn’t try to argue. “Then thank you for the help, as well,” he says, and pulls his hands back. Rises to his feet, but—

Dogma still has his hands fisted in his robes, and he leans in, rests his forehead against Mace's ribs. “Sorry, sir,” he says, and his voice shakes, his grip tightening. “Just—just a minute. Please.”

Gently, Mace rests a hand in his hair again, and he doesn’t move. “As long as you need, Dogma,” he says, and—

If there's wetness on his robes, if Dogma's shoulders shake in the glow of the stars sliding into hyperspace, Mace stays silent. He stands steady while Dogma falls apart, gives him a ballast, an anchor, and doesn’t waver.

It’s what he’s always done, whenever anyone has needed it, and that’s not something he’ll ever change.


End file.
